Bruce of the Circle A. Titus Harold

shoved from one place to another, a door opened, the feet came down the hall, the door of the room in which Bayard waited swung back ... and Ann Lytton stood in the doorway.

      For a moment their eyes held on one another. The woman's lips were compressed, her nostrils dilated in excitement, her blue eyes wide and apprehensive, although she struggled to repress all these evidences of emotional disturbance. The man's jaw slacked in astonishment, then tightened, and his chest swelled with a deep breath of pleased surprise; he experienced a strange tremor and subconsciously he told himself that she was as rare looking as he had thought she must be from the impression he had received down in the dark hallway.

      "Why ... why, I didn't think you ... it might be a lady in there, Miss," he said in slow astonishment. "I thought it was a man ... because ladies don't often get in here. I ... this is a nasty mess an' maybe you better not tackle it ... if ... if you could call somebody to help me.... Nora, th' girl downstairs, would come, Miss—"

      "I can help you," she said, and a flush rushed into her cheeks, which at once relieved and accentuated their pallor. It was as though he had accused her of a weakness that she resented.

      Bayard looked her over through a silent moment; then moved one foot quickly and, eyes still holding her gaze, his left hand groped for a towel, found it, shook it out and spread it over the face of the drunken, wounded man he had called her to help him tend.

      "He ain't a beauty, Miss," he explained, relieved that the countenance was concealed from her. "I hate to look at him myself an' I'd hate to have a girl ... like you have to look at him ... I'm sure he would, too,"—as though he did not actually mean the last.

      The woman moved to his side then, eyes held on the wound by evident effort. It was as if she were impelled to turn her gaze to that covered face and fought against the desire with all the will she could muster.

      "You see, Miss, this artery's been cut an' I've got my thumb shut down on it here," he indicated. "This gent got shot up a trifle to-night an' we—you an' me—have got to fix him up. I can't do it alone because he's bleedin' an' he's lost more than's healthy for him now.

      "It sure is fine of you to come, Miss."

      He looked at her curiously and steadily yet without giving offense. It was as though he had characterized this woman for himself, was thinking more about the effect on her of the work they were to do than of that work itself. He was interested in this newcomer; he wanted to know about her. That was obvious. He watched her as he talked and his manner made her know that he was very gentle, very considerate of her peace of mind, in spite of the quality about him which she could not understand, which was his desire to know how she would act in this unfamiliar, trying situation.

      "Now, you take that towel and roll it up," he was saying. "Yes, th' long way.... Then, bring that stick they use to prop up th' window—"

      "It's a tourniquet you want," she broke in.

      He looked up at her again.

      "Tourniquet.... Tourniquet," he repeated, to fix the new word in his mind. "Yes, that's what I want: to shut off the blood."

      She folded the towel and brought the stick. From her audible breathing Bayard knew that she was excited, but, otherwise, she had ceased to give indication of the fact.

      "Loop it around and tie a knot," he said.

      "Is that right?" she asked, in a voice that was too calm, too well controlled for the circumstances.

      "Yes, it's all right, Miss. How about you?"—a twinkle in his eye. "If this ... if you don't think you can stand it to fuss with him—" he began, but she cut him off with a look that contained something of a quality of reassurance, but which was more obviously a rebuff.

      "I said I could help you. Why do you keep doubting me?"

      "I don't; I'm tryin' to be careful of your feelings,"—averting his eyes that she might not see the quick fire of appreciation in them. "Will you tighten it with that stick, now, Miss?"

      The man on the bed breathed loudly, uncouthly, with now and then a short, sharp moan. The sour smell of stale liquor was about him; the arm and hand that had been washed were the only clean parts of his body.

      "Now you twist it," Bayard said, when she was ready, although he could have done it easily with his free hand.

      She grasped the stick with determination and, as she turned it quickly to take up the slack in the loop, Bayard leaned back, part of his weight on the elbow which kept the legs of the unconscious man from threshing too violently as the contrivance shut down on his arm. His attention, however, was not for their patient; it was centered on the girl's hands as they manipulated stick and towel. They were the smallest hands, the trimmest, he had ever seen. The fingers were incredibly fine-boned and about them was a nicety, a finish, that was beyond his experience; yet, they were not weak hands; rather, competent looking. He watched their quick play, the spring of the tendons in her white wrist and, with a new interest, detected a smooth white mark about the third finger of her left hand where a ring had been. He looked into her intent face again, wondering what sort of ring that had been and why it was no longer there; then, forgot all about it in seeing the tight line of her mouth and finding delight in the splendid curve of her chin.

      "You hate to do it," he thought, "but you're goin' to see it through!"

      "There!" she said, under her breath. "Is that tight enough?"

      He looked quickly away from her face to the wound and released the pressure of his thumb.

      "Not quite. It oozes a little."

      He liked the manner in which she moved her head forward to indicate her resolve, when she forced the cloth even more tightly about the arm. The injured man cried aloud and sought to roll over, and Bayard saw the girl's mouth set in a firmer cast, but in other ways she bore herself as if there had been no sound or movement to frighten or disturb her.

      "That'll do," he told her, watching the result of the pressure carefully. "Now, would you tear that pillow slip into strips wide enough for a bandage?" She shook the pillow from the casing. "That'll tickle Uncle, downstairs," he added. "It's worth two bits, but he can charge me a dollar for it."

      She did not appear to hear this last; just went on tearing strips with hands that trembled ever so little and his gray eyes lighted with a peculiar fire. Weakness was present in her, the weakness of inexperience, brought on by the sight of blood, the presence of a strange man of a strange type, the proximity of that muttering, filthy figure with his face shrouded from her; but, behind that weakness, was an inherent strength, a determination that made her struggle with all her faculties to hide its evidences; and that courage was the quality which Bayard had sought in her. Only, he could not then appreciate its true proportions.

      "Is this enough?" she asked.

      "Plenty. I can manage alone now, if—"

      "But I might as well help you through with this!"

      She had again detected his doubt of her, discerned his motive in giving her an avenue of graceful escape from the unpleasant situation; she thought that he still mistrusted her stamina and her stubborn refusal to give way to any weakness set the words on her lips to cut him short.

      "Well, if you want to," he said, soberly, "you can keep this thing tight, while I wash this hole out an' bind it up.... I wouldn't look at it, if I was you; you ain't used to it, you know."

      He looked her in the eye, on that last advice, for a moment. She understood fully and, as she took the stick in her hand to keep the blood flow checked, she averted her face. For a breath he looked at the stray little hairs about the depression at the back of her neck. Then, to his work.

      He was gentle in cleansing the wound, but he could not touch the raw flesh without giving pain and still accomplish his end, and, on the first pressure of his fingers, the man writhed and twitched and jerked at the arm, drawing his knees up spasmodically.

      "I'll have to set on him, Miss," Bayard said.

      He did so,